A Certain Consulting Detective
by Altego
Summary: A post TRF story - cos everyone's got one (or ten). Very loosely based on ACD's The Adventure of The Empty House but will descend into JohnLock eventually. Also, I've tried to come up with an original reaction from John to Sherlock's return.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did**

The limp had returned. John had expected it; he knew it was psychosomatic and he'd tried to tell his brain this, but it was like stepping on a broken escalator, no matter how long you stood there telling yourself that it wasn't going to move, when you stepped onto it, you still momentarily experienced that loss of balance. John decided that a certain consulting detective had made him blind to the very concept of a limp, just as a real blind person would step onto a broken escalator, believe it to be a staircase and not stumble.

So here John Watson was, 18 months on from the day a certain consulting detective had left him in the most abrupt and brutal fashion, making his daily limp home from the surgery to his very basic lodgings. They weren't too far away from Baker Street, but they were a world away in style and sentiment; it was all John could afford. He refused to touch the money Mycroft kept depositing in his account, instead giving it to a charity, dedicated to helping soldiers with PTSD. He knew he should move out of London, but whilst he couldn't bear to live at the flat in Baker Street, he couldn't bring himself to leave the city altogether. Not only did it contain Mrs Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper, who had become close friends to him over the past 18 months, but John still got a glimpse of something resembling life in his work with the police.

After John had punched the Chief Superintendent he never expected to be allowed within 100 yards of a crime scene ever again, but the subsequent investigation into a certain consulting detective's death had revealed a catalogue of errors regarding one James Moriarty, that had allowed the criminal free reign of London for a number of years. Someone at the top had to take the flak for missing the activity of such a huge criminal kingpin for so long and the Super had gone in a blaze of ignominy, with the media beginning to question their opinion of a certain consulting detective. The new Chief Superintendent had re-instated Greg Lestrade as a DI and Greg had immediately begun asking John to help with cases.

John had refused at first, but Greg had been persistent and when John had finally relented and been asked to take a look at a body, he'd gotten that familiar thrill and he'd even felt connected with a certain consulting detective once more. He knew the man himself would have dismissed this as 'sentiment' with a sneer, but John didn't care; if sentiment was what got him through the day, then so be it.

As John walked, more graffiti caught his eye and made his chest tighten. He stopped and stared at it for a moment. The campaign had started not long after a certain consulting detective had died. At first John had been pulled in for questioning over the graffiti, but the police were satisfied that all he'd done was write the first two sentences as his final blog entry and others had taken it upon themselves to copy them; he couldn't be prosecuted for that.

Then witnesses had come forward, those who'd worked for Moriarty and tried to escape his network, with devastating consequences for them. This was followed by those whom a certain consulting detective had helped, people like Henry Knight, whose cases couldn't possibly have been orchestrated by the man who'd solved them. John had worked with these people to present enough information on a certain consulting detective's innocence to the police and the press and the graffiti had multiplied, springing up in the dead of night, getting people talking. Of course, John wanted everyone to believe again, but at the same time, he wondered what good that would do in the long term.

Seeing _his_ name written down was like re-opening a wound, it caused John's fingers to wrap around the nearest solid object and squeeze it until his knuckles went white, his heart beat faster and a lump formed in his throat. But, aside from a couple of times that first week and just after the funeral, John hadn't shed tears for a certain consulting detective. John Watson was from a family where tears were rarely shed, they were for sissies his dad said and if any of them did cry, it was in private. John knew this was an unhealthy attitude, but as he'd grown he'd begun to associate tears with Harry's hysterical drunken outbursts and he retained the revulsion for displays of grief that his dad had instilled into him.

Nowadays John's emotional responses usually took the form of quiet, building anger that would then be released in a burst of energy. In his army days he'd channeled this into exercise, running mostly. Now his limp was back he just took to staying awake, walking the city streets until his leg throbbed and he was mentally and physically exhausted; then there might be a few dry sobs as he finally allowed himself to lay on his bed, but no tears. He also found that the nightmares which induced panic attacks and sometimes left him with blurry vision, could be alleviated with valium. He didn't tell anyone he was self medicating like this and he kept his dose low, but he thought he might possibly be addicted at this point. However, he didn't care, he just needed to keep functioning.

And that had been the main thing on his mind for the past 18 months, keep busy, keep functioning. He knew that some people had thought he might attempt suicide, but whilst that had been something he'd contemplated just after being discharged from the army, too much had happened in his life now for it to be an option. There was still work to be done and the work was what he lived for, both as a doctor and as a police volunteer. He left himself as little time as possible to be at home, as he couldn't concentrate on anything trivial any more, not books, TV, or music. Nights at the pub were ok, because the alcohol had a similar effect to the valium and as long as people stuck to topics unrelated to a certain consulting detective, John almost felt normal.

He'd sometimes go for afternoon tea with Mrs Hudson in a café, somewhere that wasn't Baker Street, but these visits had to be timed, because sooner or later she'd start on a topic that would give John heartburn. Of course she missed a certain consulting detective as much as John did, but as much as he wanted to be there for her, she would need to talk to someone else about her loss. John just wasn't ready to handle it; he didn't think he'd ever be ready.

So as he stood here now, staring at the graffiti, he felt the familiar tightening of his fingers around the head of his cane and a trembling throughout his body. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to block out the words in his head that he knew as well as his own name:

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes. James Moriarty was real." And then the sentence that wasn't John's, something he wished were true with all his heart, but it couldn't be, could it? "Sherlock Holmes is alive."

He took a deep breath and hurried away, chanting 'I know, I know he told the truth, but why say he's alive? Why? Why?' over and over in his head, but he must have been mouthing the words too, as he was getting a few funny looks from passers by.

John turned onto a less busy street to escape the stares, marking his route home, when out of nowhere a body hurtled into his side, pushing him to the floor, a strange noise rushing past him as he fell.

John's immediate thought was robbery, or a gang hit and mistaken identity. He braced himself for a kicking and prepared to put up a fight. They weren't getting his phone whatever happened, it was his final link to the memory of a certain consulting detective, messages, pictures, _that_ phonecall. If he had to die defending his phone, so be it; for the first time in a long time, John Watson felt properly alive, and for the first time since his discharge from the army, he also didn't really care if he were to die. But the next thing John knew, his attacker leapt over him and began running down the street, John lifted his head to look after the retreating figure, but was distracted by a man yelling.

"Are you alright mate, someone just shot at you?"

John looked up in confusion and in that brief second he followed where the man was pointing to see a bullet hole in the doorway beside his head. But rather than be worried about that, John turned his slightly dazed head again to see his attacker round the corner and a single glimpse of the back of the person's coat was enough to have John on his feet and sprinting after them, ignoring the concerned passers by who'd stopped to try and help him.

"Oi mate! Yer forgot yer stick?"

John knew he had and he didn't care, his leg was killing him and threatened to give way at any moment, but the more he ran and thought about why he was running, the more he forgot about it. He rounded the corner of the street in time to see the pursued person burst out onto a busy main road. But this street was long with very few opportunities to disappear, so John knew that as long as he chose the right direction, he'd spot his attacker eventually. And the right direction wouldn't be too hard to deduce; John had an inkling of where the man might be going.

Sure enough within a couple of minutes, John spotted someone weaving in and out of the crowds, never slowing enough for John to get a good look at him, it was definitely a him, but enough for John to want to catch up and confront this man. At the very least, he needed to thank him for saving his life, at the most, he needed to know if he'd gone insane.

And then the coat flicked around a corner and John took the side street just before. He knew the streets well now, night after night of walking them had given him a mental map to rival even that of a certain consulting detective. He was going to head this man off at the next turning. But when he got there, the man was gone. John had gone the wrong way. He leaned down on his knees, gasping, gulping huge lungfulls of air and cursing on his exhales, telling himself that the wind blowing in his face was causing his eyes to run a little.

Stupid! To think he was being led back to Baker Street. Fucking stupid to think it might have been him!

And then a shrill whistle cut through the almost empty street and John looked up to see the flick of a coat disappear over a rooftop and he recognised the building as being one street away from his current lodgings. He knew which way to go now and he took off down an alleyway, which led between the building and the houses. It was only when he got to the corner and was about to turn onto his street, that he heard a clattering in one of the yards behind him and another shrill whistle. He halted and after a seconds deliberation, turned and ran back down the alley, trying to guess which yard held his attacker, or possibly his saviour.

He clambered over a wall between two houses about half way down; he recognised them as being opposite his own, as both had scaffolding around them and were being renovated. John looked around for a sign, anything that might indicate which one of these empty houses the man had gone into. John must have stood there for ten seconds, but they seemed like an eternity and he began to fight the rising panic that he'd lost the man for good this time, but then he saw it, in the glow from a security light, some plaster dust drifting down from one of the scaffolding boards in front of him. He shot forwards and was up the scaffolding within seconds, finding the window to one of the back rooms unlocked.

Yet, for just a moment, he paused. He could easily be walking into a trap. Stupid, sentimental John Watson, walking in to the arms of a killer who knew exactly what it took to make him come running. And yet, if he were to die now, would it really be so bad? The work wasn't finished, but then was work ever truly finished? There'd be people to miss him, of course, but then that's what people did didn't they, die and care and miss their friends. No, John's mind was made up, he was going in, to death, or to glory. And with the adrenaline rushing in his veins and a small smile gracing his face, for the first time in a long time, reaching his eyes, John Watson opened the window and climbed inside the empty house.


	2. Chapter 2

It was dark inside, but as John made his way onto the landing he saw the flickering glow of candles, coming from a room further along, at the front of the house. John approached cautiously, his hand automatically falling to his belt and prompting a silent curse that he no longer carried his gun with him. For all John's indifference to life or death, he still cherished the instinct of self preservation. Nevertheless, he kept walking and tried to get a good look at the lit room before entering. It was empty.

John swallowed his disappointment and began to look around, trying to deduce what he could about the person squatting here. There was a mattress on the floor and the candles sat nearby in glass jars. The mattress was covered with heavy blankets, indicating that the central heating wasn't working in this house and adding weight to John's observation that the place was empty, save for this illegal squatter. There was a blackout curtain across the window, which obviously meant that the person didn't want to be seen living here and there were several plastic bottles of water, but no clothes, or signs of food, suggesting that the person couldn't have been here long and must be using somewhere else to eat and keep clean.

John knew that this house was somewhere opposite his flat and he suddenly had a desire to look into his home and deduce why the man had led him here. How long had the squatter been living near him? It couldn't have been more than a week, as there had been builders here until then and they were only taking time off for the Christmas holidays. He made his way over to the window and his fingers were centimeters from touching the heavy duty tarpaulin, when a voice cut through the silent, semi-darkness.

"Don't touch that, he might be outside."

John's legs threatened to give way, even though part of him had known, from the second he'd seen that coat, who it was that'd saved his life. John's left hand began trembling uncontrollably, so he gripped it with his right and waited for the man to speak again. He daren't turn around, not yet, just in case he'd imagined it.

"Hello John."

"You" John could hardly speak, his breath catching in his throat, he inhaled loudly and tried again "you _never_ did things the right way round, did you?"

"Still talking about me in the past tense?" John turned around then and even though he knew who he'd see standing there, even though he could remember every feature of the man he'd lived with for 18 months and then lost for 18 more, the sight still took his breath away.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes stood and stared at one another for the longest time, neither one of them sure of what to say next and John at least, not really trusting himself to speak. John clenched his fists until his knuckles went white and tried to bring his breathing and heart rate under control. Sherlock watched fascinated, as a myriad of emotions played out across John's face in the flickering candlelight, whilst John looked for any sign of emotion in Sherlock's face, but the man's expression was inscrutable.

To Sherlock's surprise, John spoke first.

"You saved my life, someone tried to shoot me."

"Yes."

"This got anything to do with why you ...?" John couldn't bring himself to refer to Sherlock jumping, so he just waved his hand uselessly in the air, knowing Sherlock would understand.

"Yes."

"How did you…?"

"Later John."

"Maybe."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock looked puzzled, once again John Watson had surprised him. But John just shrugged. A curious kind of numbness had come over him and suddenly he realised just how tired he was and just how much his leg hurt. He wanted to go home and then he'd wake up and a certain consulting detective would still be dead and his life would carry on in the same methodical, dull fashion he'd come to expect over the past 18 months.

"So", John began, in response to a still puzzled Sherlock who'd been watching his face run through another set of emotions, "you're alive then?"

"Well … obviously John." Sherlock looked worried now, as if John might have lost his mind.

"That's … erm … That's good. It's good. I'm glad … See you around mate." And John walked past Sherlock without giving him a second glance and headed towards the door.

Sherlock suddenly felt as if the world had tipped off its axis. Of all the responses he'd expected from John Watson, this hadn't featured at all. He'd played out the scenario where John would punch him, faint on him, cry on him, hell, even kiss him out of sheer joy and regret it later, but this indifference, this resignation, it made Sherlock feel sick.

So the consulting detective did the only thing he could think of and leapt towards the retreating doctor, wrapping his long arms around John's chest from behind and holding him, in imitation of a wrestling move. John froze for a moment and Sherlock felt his breathing quicken and his heart rate speed up.

"Let go of me."

"No." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper which shocked him, could it be that he was giving in to sentiment? He sneered at this thought and held John all the tighter. "No!" he said again, this time with his usual bravado and command.

"Let. Go. Of. Me. Now!"

"No!"

John began to struggle violently then, trying to kick Sherlock's shins, throwing his elbows back into his ribs, and clawing at his hands to make him let go.

"You don't get to do this, you don't fucking get to do this, you heartless bastard." John was yelling now, but Sherlock knew he'd just have to hold on a little while longer and he'd get his own way.

"It was for you John, I had to jump, or his sniper would've killed you."

"Why should I bloody care now, you prick? 18 months, there wasn't a fucking sniper on me for 18 months. I deserved to know. You don't get to do this!" John could feel the lump rising in his throat now, unshed tears burning his eyes, he had to get away, he had to go now before a certain consulting detective saw him cry. But Sherlock was stronger than he looked, he managed to wrap his limbs tightly around John's to the point where the former army doctor couldn't move and that was when he delivered the final blow to the man who'd kept a lid on his grief for 18 months.

"Why aren't you able to say my name John?"

John Watson stopped struggling and gave in to the tears.

Sherlock relaxed his grip then and was about to pull away and allow his friend some privacy to cry, when John surprised him for the third time and turned into his embrace, burrowing his face against the taller man's neck and wrapping one arm tightly around his back, the other pressed between them, his hand laid over Sherlock's heart. Sherlock's arms hovered behind John for the longest time, the man himself frozen, a look of uncertainty on his face. But as John's tears began soaking into the collar of his shirt Sherlock sighed and let his arms fall, one hand rubbing up and down John's back as he'd seen other people do, in a comforting gesture; he'd never comforted anyone before in his life, but for John's sake, he hoped he was getting this right.

Sherlock began to talk softly, telling John the why and the how and why he couldn't have let him know he was alive earlier.

"I couldn't risk it John, I couldn't risk you. If it weren't for the homeless network's misplaced loyalty, telling the world I was alive with that graffiti, I wouldn't be risking you now. But he found out about the rumours, he started to investigate what had happened to other members of Moriarty's network and then he knew I wasn't dead, so he came back to finish the job. I _had_ to stop him John. I will _not_ lose you."

John tightened his grip. His tears had stopped now, but he still wouldn't lift his head or trust himself to speak. Sherlock felt he needed to explain further, but he wasn't sure how, he wasn't sure of the right thing to say. For the first time in a long time, he felt nervous.

"I know that you feel hurt John … that others knew and you didn't. I think that's why you're angry… Is it John? You think I betrayed our friendship? I didn't … I would never … John I'm sor… I'm sorry."

It was the turn of Sherlock's voice to crack then and John didn't answer, just seemed to burrow further into Sherlock's neck, which was making the younger man nervous; John seemed to be inhaling his scent, listening to his heartbeat, cataloguing his vital signs, like he couldn't quite believe the man in his arms was alive.

"I wanted so much to tell you. Mycroft told me you weren't doing well and that hurt me. Do you hear me John? It hurt. I don't feel things like that … at least, I didn't."

Sherlock stroked John's hair then and allowed himself one moment to drop his head and inhale the scent that was uniquely John, the smell of rain on grass, skin that had been in the sun, the faint tang of antiseptic from the surgery and his shampoo, the same one he always used. John Watson, predictable in his habits but never in his actions.

They stayed like that for a long time, Sherlock waiting until John had cried himself out. The smaller man pulled away and wiped his face with his sleeves, he turned away from Sherlock, but not before the consulting detective had seen the blush on his cheeks and the look of shame in his eyes. Sherlock stepped forwards and laid a hand on John's shoulder; the smaller man flinched and shrugged it off.

"Thank you, for saving my life and letting me …" he waved his hand again, this time referring to his moment of weakness. "But I'm … you're going to have to give me time, Sherlock, I'm not sure if I can just _switch_ the way you can."

"Time?"

"To forgive you" John almost whispered the words and he felt, rather than saw Sherlock tense.

"Will you still be my friend?" The question almost floored John, so innocent and childlike, coming from a man to whom danger was routine, a man who'd thrown himself from 60ft building to save John's life.

"God Sherlock" John exhaled the words and tried not to cry again.

"I think you've already forgiven me John" Sherlock sounded unmoved once more, as John tried desperately to hold it together.

John whirled around then and looked angrily at the face observing him with a penetrating stare and just perhaps a flicker of something human behind all that scientific indifference.

"Just leave it Sherlock, you're not going to waltz back into my life and pretend everything can go back to the way it was, just like that" John snapped his fingers forcefully in Sherlock's face.

"Perhaps not, but you've spent 18 months avoiding saying my name John and just now you've said it twice. You've only had to see me for your limp and hand tremor to disappear completely and I know that tonight you'll be able to sleep without the valium, as you're already feeling exhausted. That tells me you'll be just fine."

"How did you know about …? No, it doesn't matter, you're such an arrogant, self centred git, do you know that?" John squared up to him, unsure whether to punch him, or descend into slightly hysterical laughter at Sherlock being Sherlock and just being alive, after all this time.

"I've been called worse many times John and you know it, so yes, I do."

"And you don't bloody care do you?" John wasn't able to process the conflicting emotions flowing through him "I need to be away from you right now Sherlock" he turned once more to leave, but Sherlock gripped his arm tightly enough to leave bruises.

"As ever, you see but you do not observe John; I care too much."

John's anger visibly left him and his shoulders slumped. Was that sincerity, even emotion in Sherlock's voice?

"I know you're tired John, I know you want to go home and I know you're still angry with me, but he's out there right now waiting to kill you and if I have to keep you here against your will to stop him, then I'll do it, because I will not let you die on my account."

There was the longest silence then and eventually John nodded, once, and Sherlock released his grip. John Watson turned, the look of the soldier in his eyes and met Sherlock's gaze with a small, but grim smile.

"You keep saying 'he', who is it? It's not Moriarty, he's dead, or did you fake that too?" Sherlock ignored the dig, but John thought he might have detected a flicker of hurt in those reptilian eyes.

"Sebastian Moran, military sniper. Dishonourably discharged from the SAS and arrested, during the invasion of Iraq for the torture and murder of several civilians and two of his own unit; the man is a bone fide psychopath. He was sentenced to death by lethal injection by a secret US military court, but our dear old Jim broke him out and smuggled him to Britain to be his hitman. It appears the man became rather loyal and is continuing Moriarty's work, albeit in his own brutal and idiotic style."

John took a moment to appreciate the irony of the situation, Moran was right hand man to Moriarty, he owed him his life and was continuing the work of his beloved employer after his untimely death. And now he was on his way to kill his honorable equal and opposite. John felt a flash of pity for the man. Had he felt about Jim the way John had felt about Sherlock? The way John perhaps still felt about Sherlock. The consulting detective deduced John's thoughts immediately and chuckled mirthlessly.

"John, he is so far removed from you as to be a different species. There can be no room for sentiment. Now I trailed him to London a few days ago, which is why I moved in here, to keep watch on you, as I expected, he tried to shoot you out in the open, which would give him a better chance of escape without leaving evidence. However, he failed, so he will try another method; Mycroft texted me his current location a few moments ago. He should be around five minutes away by now." Sherlock began picking up his possessions, such as they were. "Here John, help me clear the room."

"But, how does he know I'm here and not in my flat?"

"He doesn't. My best deduction is that he's going to wait by the window, which when I take down this curtain, you will see is directly opposite your living room. Tonight when you walk over to draw the curtains, he'll shoot you."

"I suppose you want me to go over there and …"

"NO!" The command came out sharper than Sherlock had intended, simply for the mental image of seeing John with a bullet hole in his head. He drew a breath in and John looked at him with concern, something tightening in his chest when he glimpsed a flicker of fear in Sherlock's eyes. "No, John, we will both stay here and wait for him. Now hurry, help me clear this room."

Within a couple of minutes the mattress, curtain, bottles and candles were taken to the back of the house and thrown down the rubbish shute, into a skip. Both men returned to Sherlock's former living quarters and stood behind the door.

"How will we know he's here?" John whispered, the sensation of leaning in close to Sherlock, the smell of chemicals, soap and just Sherlock, that lingered on his skin made John feel lightheaded. But he swallowed this down and tried to focus. "The man's a military sniper, stealth is his trademark."

"Which is why I rigged the house" Sherlock leaned into John this time, practically brushing his lips against the smaller man's ear. He took a moment to inhale before continuing and John got the impression that Sherlock knew he'd been appreciating the smell of his skin and was returning the gesture. "It's amazing what you can get away with when you're dressed like a workman. The window you came in through can't be opened without rattling the scaffolding, the roof has a few loose tiles, I've loosened some floorboards in the main staircase and as an added precaution, this door has creaking hinges. If he can get past all that without me noticing, then frankly, I deserve to have him shoot me."

John's immediate response to this was to reach out and take Sherlock's hand in his own, briefly squeezing it before letting go. "Over my dead body, Sherlock. I'm not losing you again." The army doctor stared straight ahead as he said this and Sherlock turned to look at him with something like wonder written over his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment a roof tile clattered down and fell past the window. Both men tensed up.

"He's going to drop down through the attic, onto the landing, I was hiding there when you came in." Sherlock's whisper was barely audible, John felt, rather than heard the words. "Get ready John" and Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, drawing an automatic pistol from it. John smiled slightly; he knew he shouldn't feel pleased at the possibility of them killing a man, he knew that the adrenaline of the fight or flight response shouldn't eradicate the symptoms of PTSD and he knew that he shouldn't be so amenable to following Sherlock's instructions, when the man was a danger to himself and his associates, but John felt all of this and more at that very moment and he knew that, as long as nothing so devastating happened between them again, he could easily forgive Sherlock for the last 18 months of pain.

As usual, Sherlock either deduced what John was thinking, or made a lucky guess, but in the split second before Moran entered the room, Sherlock swooped down and pressed a small kiss to John's temple. This caused the smaller man to tense up and flick his eyes to Sherlock's face with an expression of confusion, annoyance and a little bit of pride; Sherlock had been telling the truth, he did care about him and this made John's stomach flip.

But all other thoughts were forgotten as Moran entered the room. Sure enough the hinges of the door creaked and Moran pushed it open more swiftly to minimise the noise. For a second John thought it might hit him and alert Moran to their presence, but it stopped millimeters from his arm. Moran crept forward, reached the window and began to set up his gun on the tripod. It was then that John noticed the light was on in his flat. Presumably Sherlock had broken in earlier in the day and put it on, to make it look like John was home, after all Moran had probably scouted out the flat and deduced that John arrived home at the same time every day. If his light had been off, it would have looked odd.

After a few minutes of waiting, both men hardly breathing and remaining as still as statues, the sun had set fully and darkness began creeping further over the London skyline. Sherlock began to move then, crouching low and approaching Moran from an angle, so he couldn't be seen in the reflection of the window. John watched fascinated, as the tall, lithe body of his friend moved slowly and silently across the room; he must have previously picked out a path where no floorboard would creak and give away his presence. John was overcome with the familiar urge to tell Sherlock he was brilliant and he smiled, god he'd missed this man.

It was almost a foolproof plan, had it not been for Moran being so attuned to danger. Perhaps he could sense the presence of any living thing creeping up on him, or perhaps he had caught a glimpse of something moving in the reflection of the window, or perhaps he was even playing Sherlock at his own game and he'd known he'd been squatting in this house. Whatever it was, when Sherlock got within touching distance, Moran whirled around, knocking the pistol from Sherlock's hand and drawing a knife. John had a split second to take in the scene, Moran spinning, Sherlock rocking back and the glint of a blade in the light from the moon.

John was across the room in seconds and Moran had certainly not been expecting him. A cry from Sherlock almost made John turn to his friend, but he wouldn't break his focus on Moran, who had half turned his head to the noise of John hurtling towards him.

Mere seconds had passed from Moran turning to attack Sherlock, before John had leapt on the assassin's back. Moran tried to flip him over, but Sherlock landed an uppercut to the man's chin that knocked his torso back upright. And John made his move. He grabbed the left side of Moran's jaw with his right hand, tightened his left arm around Moran's neck and pulled up and sideways. He heard and felt the pop that signaled Moran's premature death and the body he was hanging onto slumped to the ground. John landing slightly ungainly on all fours.

John stood and pushed the body on the ground with his foot to be sure, nodded once and then looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes had his left hand pressed to his right shoulder and blood was seeping out between his fingers, but apart from the trembling of his right arm, he was betraying very little pain in his expression. Instead his gaze was fixed in amazement on John Watson.

"You broke his neck." He said, unable to disguise the admiration in his voice.

"Soldier, remember, I learnt that from an SAS buddy." John said, in his usual unassuming fashion. "Besides, he tried to kill you."

"John." Sherlock's voice trembled slightly then and he swayed on his feet. John Watson was back in doctor mode almost immediately. He was by Sherlock's side and putting the consulting detective's good arm around his shoulders.

"Come on mate, let's get you to the flat, I've got a first aid kit."

John supported Sherlock down the stairs and swiftly across the road, hoping no-one paid too much attention to them and passed them off as a couple of drunks. After a few moments fumbling with his keys and supporting Sherlock simultaneously, the men were up the stairs and inside John's meager lodgings. John deposited Sherlock on the sofa and went to the bathroom for his first aid kit, his mind reeling.

He still hadn't fully taken in the fact that Sherlock Holmes was alive and yet he'd already forgiven him, killed for him and the man himself was now sat in John's small flat, taking up entirely too much room with his ego. John leaned his head against the bathroom cabinet and exhaled. On top of all this there were feelings that John didn't think he'd ever have to confront and now Sherlock was back, he found them bubbling to the surface. But John Watson was not a coward. He took the first aid kit and made his way back to his injured best friend.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was a bit pale, but otherwise ok when John returned, he was tapping on his phone and in response to John's questioning gaze the consulting detective answered "Mycroft" and inclined his head towards the empty house which now held the body of Sebastian Moran and a knife with Sherlock's blood on it. John took that to mean that big brother was in for a spot of cleaning up, John didn't like to think what would happen to the body, suffice to say, no-one would ever find it.

The doctor drew up a syringe of lidocaine, taking care not to give too much, for fear of reawakening the addict inside Sherlock.

He helped the consulting detective off with his coat and shirt then tied a tourniquet above his elbow on his good arm. Seeing the expanse of Sherlock's smooth pale skin made John feel a bit lightheaded and he didn't dare look up, to where he knew the younger man's blue-grey eyes were fixed on him.

"Ok, sharp scratch" He injected the painkiller into Sherlock's shoulder and the consulting detective smiled at John's clinical manner.

"Thank you doctor." Sherlock almost purred the words and John could feel the man's voice reverberating around the tiny living room. Once again, his stomach flipped with the anticipation of something between them, like electricity strung out and passing from one to the other.

"Ok Sherlock, I'm going to look at this wound. If it looks deep enough to have hit bone, or damaged connective tissue, I'll have to take you to hospital."

Sherlock looked more annoyed than anything else with the prospect of attending A&E and the police asking questions, more questions on top of the one's he'd face about his return from the dead. But he knew there was no use arguing with John when it came to his health. He just nodded and scowled.

Luckily John was able to see that the blade had gone in at an angle, upwards and outwards, and was unlikely to have penetrated the joint capsule.

"I'm going to stitch this now and it'll hurt, but I'll be quick" The cleaning and stitching that followed was punctuated by a couple of whispered expletives and hisses from Sherlock, but otherwise passed in silence. Sherlock Holmes was an excellent patient. He wasn't squeamish, usually managed to remain still and conscious through his injuries and the medical knowledge he possessed allowed him to help out, by passing John equipment. But he always let John stitch him up, because John's stitches were neater than his.

In the times he'd needed John's medical expertise back in Baker Street, the army doctor had seen the evidence of badly stitched scars where Sherlock had sutured his own wounds. John never passed comment, but it had become an unspoken rule between them, if Sherlock needed medical attention, he would call John and John would come running, dropping everything else in the process if necessary, his work, a girlfriend, the shopping, no matter, Sherlock took precedence.

However, there had been one time where John had needed stitches and discovered that his hand wasn't as steady on himself as it was on others. That night Sherlock had cleaned the wound on John's thigh and had steadied John's shaking hand, before taking the needle from him. 'Let me' he'd said quietly, 'I'll be neat'. And although it had been slower progress than John would have liked, they were indeed the neatest stitches he'd seen an amateur perform. John had been immensely grateful and touched by Sherlock's show of kindness. That hadn't been long before Moriarty had arrived back in their lives and taken Sherlock from him. John had often remembered that last quiet moment between the two of them and the strange look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd traced the finished sutures with his finger and rested his hand briefly on John's leg, before going to make him tea.

John could feel a slight flush on his cheeks as Sherlock watched him now. Perhaps he knew he was remembering that night and working out how he felt about it. Perhaps he was thinking of what had happened between them earlier. John's hand trembled slightly again, but luckily he'd come to the end of the sutures and began to wipe the blood and iodine from Sherlock's shoulder. He then looked at his finished masterpiece; all the scars he'd seen on Sherlock's skin were masterpieces, because the man himself looked like a statue that only a gifted sculptor could have created. Before John registered what he was doing he reached out and gently traced the closed wound with his fingertips. He made to stand, to get a gauze with which to cover it, but Sherlock moved swiftly, grabbing John by his left shoulder, the wounded one.

"Let me see". John looked down, embarrassed, the flush on his cheeks no longer hidden.

"No" He pulled back out of Sherlock's grasp.

"Why not?"

"I don't know Sherlock, because it's ugly and I hate it" He stood then, grabbing a dressing and throwing it onto Sherlock's lap. "Put that over your stitches".

"You mean it's a sign of weakness and you feel guilty, because it made you leave your comrades behind."

"Piss off" John spat suddenly, twisting away from Sherlock's attempt to touch him again. "You haven't earned the right to start rearranging me again Sherlock."

"No John, I'm not trying to … I just thought that … well, I mean …" Sherlock gestured to his own wound and sounded vulnerable once more, but John eyed him suspiciously. He'd seen Sherlock put on this act before, when he'd pretended to cry to a witness, when he'd apologised to Molly; he wasn't sure it was genuine.

"I'm not your experiment Sherlock, I'm your friend and you can help me tonight by being ordinary and boring and going to bed. You take mine, I'll have the couch." With that John turned away and made as if to take his first aid kit back to the bathroom. But for the second time that night, he found a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind.

"Sherlock" he growled with a mixture of tiredness and anger.

"Please John" Sherlock whispered in his ear, "I know you don't show your scar to anyone, that you keep a t-shirt on, or switch the lights off during sex, that you dress before stepping from the bathroom, that you don't have a mirror that shows more than your face." John tensed and felt as though he might be on the verge of a panic attack. What was Sherlock doing to him? Why was he doing it? "But I want to be the one who sees it John, I want to make you pleased to have that scar, because it brought you to me, I want you to recognise all your best qualities in it."

"Why now?" John was on the verge of tears again and Sherlock still hadn't relinquished his hold on him; somehow it felt right to be here though, in Sherlock's arms, the consulting detective so close, whispering such wonderful things.

"It's a paltry comparison John, but I have an equal scar now. It seems right that I should have gotten this for your sake. You have healed my wound, I wish to do the same for yours."

And suddenly John realised that Sherlock wasn't just talking about the wound he'd sustained in Afghanistan, he was talking about the 18 months he'd been 'dead' and everything John had suffered as a result of his grief.

The army doctor nodded once, briefly, and Sherlock released him, watching him turn and gasp slightly to find Sherlock so close to him.

John slowly pulled the neck of his jumper to one side, but Sherlock shook his head. "No, take it off" John scowled. "Please, John?"

John sighed with exasperation and began removing his jumper, but Sherlock noted the slight trembling of his body and faint blush blooming across his face. As the jumper was thrown aside, John couldn't meet Sherlock's intense gaze. Instead he started filling the silence of the consulting detective's scrutiny with words.

"There you go you persistent git, it's ugly, I told you, Sherlock, we can't all wear wounds as bloody perfectly as you can." John made to move his hand then to cover the scar, but Sherlock's elegant fingers came to rest against the ruined flesh and began tracing the starburst of keloid scarring that stretched below the clavicle, over the glenoid and back, behind the scapula.

"Beautiful" Sherlock whispered and John looked up, mouth gaping.

"What?"

"It's beautiful John" Sherlock traced it again and this time the look in his eyes made John shiver. John swallowed thickly and then jerked away. Sherlock's hand hovered in the air between them.

"Why did you kiss me?" The words were out before John even registered that he'd said them. He blushed and looked at the floor, but Sherlock reached out and tilted his chin back up.

Sherlock stared at him until John couldn't take the scrutiny. He reflexively covered his scar with his right hand again and jerked his head away from Sherlock's touch. Sherlock kept opening and closing his mouth as if to speak, searching for the right words, but he couldn't seem to get them out.

"Look Sherlock" John still avoided his gaze, "it doesn't matter, we'll talk in the morning." John went to grab his jumper, but once again, Sherlock gripped his arm. John almost exploded in frustration.

"Are you going to let me do anything tonight, or are you going to keep manipulating me like a bloody puppet?"

"Because I've wanted to come home for so long John and you are my home."

"I'm sorry, what?" John looked at him then with a partly puzzled, partly annoyed expression.

"Why I kissed you, you are my home John. Was it wrong of me?"

"Fucking hell" John exhaled again, "I swear Sherlock, if you're playing me, I'm going to get violent; I'm not in the mood for this right now." but as soon as John's words were out, he regretted them, as he saw Sherlock's usually impassive face crumple and tears swim in his eyes.

"Jo…John" Although his tears didn't fall, Sherlock's voice cracked as he reached a trembling hand towards the former army medic's ruined shoulder and John dropped his own hand from his scar to allow Sherlock to touch him again, puzzled as to why this should mean so much to him.

"What's wrong Sherlock? What happened to you?"

"I'm not a good man John, not like you" He traced John's scar once more with a reverent look. "How do you become a good man?" John gripped Sherlock's wrist tightly and holding the younger man's hand against his scar, John moved his free hand to Sherlock's shoulder, tracing the new stitches, then to a pink scar on his chest, another on his arm, then over his ribs, cataloguing all the new scars Sherlock had sustained in his quest to wipe out Moriarty's network.

"All these Sherlock, they make you more than a good man in my eyes."

"I killed a child John" Sherlock's voice trembled and John froze, his mind screaming 'No, god no'.


	4. Chapter 4

John hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand, but he had no idea what to say. Sherlock obviously felt guilty, but how could that make up for what he'd done? He must have had a reason, the child must have threatened his life, that was it. Like those soldiers John had spoken to in Afghanistan, who'd shot children, children with guns, threatening to kill their comrades, brainwashed but dangerous, they'd had no choice but to kill, or be killed.

Sherlock answered John's frantic thoughts without meeting his searching gaze. "He was innocent John."

"Then why Sherlock?" John almost wailed his response and tried to pull away then, but the consulting detective wouldn't let him go.

"I tracked Moran to a remote village in Serbia, he'd holed up in a farmhouse just outside. If the people he'd forced to put him up spoke of it, he'd kill them. A gang of former soldiers would enforce their silence. He left the house before I got there, they wouldn't speak to me. So I kidnapped their eldest boy."

"Oh, Jesus, Sherlock … I don't want to hear this …"

"YOU HAVE TO!" Sherlock yelled gripping John's arm so tightly he was sure to leave bruises. He seemed to regret the action a second later and loosened his hold "You have to John, please!" he said much more softly. "I didn't hurt him, I just threatened him, he was 9 years old. He was tough, but not that tough. He told me about Moran coming back here and the name he was traveling under. Then I took the boy back home John, I swear I took him back safely." Sherlock dug his fingers into John's shoulder making the smaller man cry out in pain.

"Owww, I believe you Sherlock, just … just ease up ok." Sherlock seemed to gather himself and relaxed his fingers.

"I called Mycroft and got Moran's newest passport voided, so I could have time to catch him up. It was a gamble and a reckless thing to do, but I panicked. If Moran had gotten that identity recently, he would have known which hosts betrayed him to me and I didn't think, I just wanted to stop him from getting to you John. I got a call about the boy, but Moran's gang laid a false trail. When I got there they'd … they'd …" Sherlock exhaled with a ragged breath and John felt his vision blur. Relief and pain all at once for his best friend. He hadn't killed the child himself, but his guilt was palpable.

"They pinned a note to him, 'Sherlock Holmes: Murderer!' I was a coward, I destroyed it before taking him home. I carried him home John and his family … they … they thanked me for bringing his body back and I … I didn't tell them my real name … I … I'm not a good man, but … but maybe you could … you could forgive me. Could you John? You understand matters of war better than I. You could forgive me and then things might go back to normal. Maybe I can stop thinking about him."

Sherlock seemed to run out of words then, whispering his final phrase, his eyes closed and mouth trembling every so often, as he continued to trace the ruined flesh of John's scar with his fingers. He was still gripping John's left wrist tightly and almost without thinking, he brought the army doctors hand to rest over his heart.

John was breathing hard, he wanted to resurrect James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran and torture them to death for the suffering they'd caused. He'd told Sherlock earlier that it might take a while for him to be forgiven, he now knew that Sherlock's arrogance in the face of that statement, his assurance that John had already forgiven him, was Sherlock trying to assuage his guilt. John had to get this right, or risk breaking the most brilliant man he'd ever known.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and fixed his eyes upon his anxious and hopeful face "I will always forgive you Sherlock, because you _are_ a good man, you're _my_ good man".

Sherlock's chest rose rapidly as he gasped, his eyes flying open and pupils dilating, as he seemed to look, not just at John, but into him as well.

And John realised that this was what he'd simultaneously craved and been afraid of, ever since they'd met, to be possessed by this heart, by this man, who would likely pull him apart, rearrange him and put him back together in such a way that he could never again breathe without Sherlock Holmes by his side. To be under the scrutiny of this intellect, to the extent that the consulting detective would make John a room in his mind palace all of his own, would make him the focus of a lifelong investigation, would own him in the way he owned his skull and probably treat him in the same cavalier fashion when the game was on. This was really why John had fought this thing between them for so long, because to admit to it would be John Watson, admitting to more than just love, it would be co-dependence, a melding of souls, a joining so intense it defied description.

Until now John had been in physically satisfying, but emotionally void relationships with women and even though the thought of gay sex terrified him, the thought of a relationship with Sherlock was breathlessly exciting. John's fingers trembled against Sherlock's skin, but the older man resolved to be brave now and confront this thing that existed between them. If he didn't do it now, he feared that they might not get another chance, that Sherlock might take his fear as rejection, close down and remain married to his work for the rest of their lives.

Actions mattered more than words at this point, so John reached up and placed his free hand on Sherlock's cheek, before sliding it around the back of his head and bringing his face down towards him, leaning up and softly touching their lips together.

As kisses went it wasn't much, just a few seconds, lips dry and mouths closed. But it was warm, filled with sensation and both men inhaling the unique scent of the other, causing their stomachs to drop like they were on a rollercoaster.

"Are you okay with this Sherlock?" John whispered as he pulled away, concerned at the way the man was stood, eyes closed and lips drawn into a tight line. Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and the impassive mask was back in place.

"Thank you John. That was … well, it was interesting. I have … that's to say … as first kisses go..." John flinched at this revelation. First kiss? Surely not. He swallowed the urge to express his shock.

"What? Romantically, or at all?"

Sherlock remained impassive, thinking, like he was conducting an experiment "I believe at all, although I cannot recall anything prior to the age of about 20 months, so I am not sure."

"Surely your mother kissed you on the lips as a child?"

"As I said John, not that I recall."

"Sherlock" John exhaled in disbelief.

The two men held on to one another's hands, Sherlock's grip gentler now, simply content to exist in one another's orbit for a while, but inside John was wondering what to do next. He didn't want to scare, repel, or overwhelm Sherlock, but he desperately wanted to be with him.

"Sherlock" he said quietly, as if talking to an easily traumatised child "can I kiss you again, but this time, can we … erm?"

Sherlock smiled slightly at John's awkwardness. "Proceed" he said in a matter of fact tone, as if he was being taught how to play the piano, "I'm sure I'll pick it up as I go along."

John moved in again and this time, when their lips met, he opened his mouth slightly and ran his tongue slowly, sensually across Sherlock's beautiful lips.

The consulting detective's impassive exterior crumbled then and he moaned softly, opening his mouth and allowing John to slip his tongue inside. He matched John's actions, moving his tongue slowly in, out and around the doctor's mouth and sliding his free hand up to John's cheek. John's thumb caressed Sherlock's face and for a second the former army doctor could have sworn the digit came away wet, but when he pulled back to look at Sherlock, the man's eyes didn't seem to be tearful.

"You taste … John, I can't catalogue it … you taste …"

"Maybe you require more data." John smiled shyly, not recognising himself in this tableau. He was nervous, his voice was hoarse, he felt like a virgin all over again. In a way, he supposed he was, he'd never been with a man before Sherlock and he wouldn't want to be with any other, he still wouldn't class himself as gay, but Sherlock wasn't just a man, he was otherworldly; besides, labels were boring. He dragged his and Sherlock's clasped hands from between them and led the consulting detective through to his bedroom. Once inside with the door closed and the bedside lamp the only source of light, John extracted his himself from Sherlock's grip and began running both hands over the soft skin and well defined muscles of his new lover's torso. He wasn't completely sure what to do next and he found Sherlock's intense gaze slightly unnerving and intensely thrilling all at once.

"John if you're having second thoughts then …"

"No" John looked into Sherlock's eyes, emphatically shaking his head. "No second thoughts Sherlock, it's just … well, I'm a little out of my depth here and so are you." John smiled and felt his heart begin racing. God, he was really going to do this. He leant into Sherlock and placed several kisses to his chest.

As he pulled back, Sherlock leaned in and began kissing John's scar, his hands came up behind John's head and back and prevented the former soldier from moving away, which he tried to do out of instinct. Nobody had ever kissed his scar before. If they'd seen it, some women had actively avoided looking at it, some had touched it, but all had ended up ignoring it, whilst simultaneously being very aware of it's presence; Sherlock had made it the centre of his world.

John whimpered as Sherlock's tongue began tracing the raised lines of his scar, drawing sensations from the ruined flesh that he'd never felt before. He blushed at the sound, so undignified for a soldier he thought, but he felt Sherlock smile against his skin. The consulting detective raised his head. "Tell me about being shot John" and then dropped it back to continue kissing and licking the scar.

"We were ambushed" John began, his breathing stretorous, "Two men got thrown by a IED and I ... Oh!" John moaned as Sherlock's hand trailed down his stomach and over his still clothed erection. "I went to them" he gasped through his pleasure "I tourniqueted the leg of one man and then the bullet hit me" Sherlock dragged his teeth gently over the centre of the scar and John let out a half sob and one hand flew up to tangle in Sherlock's hair. "My friend Mac dragged me behind a tank and we waited for the next patrol to get to us. I lost a lot of blood. I almost died. Then later I got an infection and was laid up with fever for weeks. I almost died again."

At this Sherlock's kisses paused and he whispered against John's skin before raising his head.

"What did you say?" John asked softly and Sherlock looked at him, his expression unreadable but a faint blush of arousal dusting his cheeks.

"What shall I give you as a token, a sign that we have met, at last?" Sherlock repeated, louder, his deep voice seeming much too resonant for John's small bedroom.

John closed his eyes and smiled softly at the line Sherlock had chosen. When he'd borrowed John's laptop, he must have read and remembered one of his favourite poems. This knowledge alone was touching enough, but as John ran through the rest of the poem in his head, the enormity of what Sherlock was telling him hit him like a freight train and almost floored him. But he had little time to dwell on this as Sherlock's lips claimed his once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**If anyone's wondering, the poem referred to in Chapter 4 is Rupert Brooke's The Call. Read it and weep. Quite literally, cos it's beautiful. Anyway, on with the story, this last chapter gets a bit steamy. **

The kiss didn't stay chaste for long, John opening his mouth and Sherlock following his lead, their tongues battling lazily for dominance. Although slow, it was heated, moans, sighs and frantic snatches of air, before reconnecting their lips, eyes closed, then open and hands exploring.

John managed to unbutton both their trousers whilst they kissed and after pushing them down and stepping out of them, John walked them backwards to the bed and toppled them both onto it, straddling Sherlock and rubbing his boxer clad erection against the taller man's crotch, eliciting a long, low moan from the consulting detective. The noise sent such a thrill through the army doctor that he repeated the action several times, extracting the same moan, before leaning down to capture Sherlock's mouth in a passionate kiss, reveling in the feeling of skin on skin contact. He'd always imagined Sherlock's body to feel cold, seeing as the man appeared to be carved from marble, but instead he radiated heat; John thought this must be something to do with a faster than usual metabolism.

John pulled back to be confronted with Sherlock's lustful, yet fearful expression. Moments ago he'd been confident in his kisses, but now, the prospect of taking things further appeared to scare him. John realised in a flash that Sherlock, having never been kissed, would most likely never have engaged in any sexual activity; Moriarty's virgin jibe had been correct and for a few moments John thrilled at the thought of seeing this great intellect helpless beneath him; John mentally chided himself, but made his move nonetheless, rutting against Sherlock shamelessly until the man was thrashing about beneath him with half sobs amidst his pleasure. John only stopped as Sherlock cried out.

"John … too much … these sensations … I don't … what do I do? … my head, John … I can't think" Sherlock Holmes was whimpering and John suddenly felt guilty.

He rocked back on his knees over the consulting detective and took Sherlock's hands in his own, leaning forwards once more to pin them above his head and bring his face level with the consulting detective's. "Do you trust me Sherlock?"

"Always John" The younger man's voice was hoarse with emotion. His erection was straining in his boxers and his hips were involuntarily raising to gain friction from his new lover, but his eyes seemed to plead with John to tell him what his body was doing.

John tried to compose his own raging desire and reminded himself that for all Sherlock's genius, for all his cold hard exterior and scathing antisocial persona, he was a mentally ill adult and John shouldn't take advantage of him, even if he was a manipulative git at times.

"I want you to relax Sherlock and think of something that can distract you, help your mind slow down." John thought for a second and remembered the poster Sherlock had kept in his room back in Baker Street. "Recite the periodic table to me."

A small smile crossed Sherlock's face then, "I can't imagine that would be very erotic for you John. The rest of society finds nothing erotic about chemical elements."

"Am I the rest of society Sherlock?"

"No" The younger man smiled wider this time, "No, you certainly are not."

John leant down to peck him on the lips between speaking to him "Good. Because I" _kiss_ "find you" _kiss_ "most attractive" _kiss_ "when you're being" _kiss_ "a clever bastard" _kiss_. "So, go on, be bloody amazing for me, because I've missed it more than you'll ever know". And before Sherlock could start, John kissed him deeply and slowly once more, leaving him gasping as he began reciting.

"Hydrogen, atomic number 1, atomic mass 1.00794. Lithium, atomic number 3, atomic mass 6.941. Beryllium …"

John trailed kisses down Sherlock's neck, letting go of his hands and moving them down to his boxers, sliding both their sets of underwear off and kicking them away with his feet.

"… Magnesium, atomic number … Ahhh …12 …"Sherlock gasped as his erection came into contact with John's, skin on skin, heated and aching for release. John leaned over to the drawer of his bedside cabinet and pulled out a bottle of lubricant. He realised his hand was shaking, but Sherlock's eyes were now closed, as he continued to recite the elements, concentrating on not losing control and he didn't see John's nervousness.

John brushed his fingertips over Sherlock's erection and watched the expression of ecstasy and anxiety alter his features into something that made John's heart constrict. He might be nervous, but that expression was something he hadn't even realised he'd lived for. John fleetingly thought that perhaps there was something perverse within him, the fact that he got off on this power shift between himself and Sherlock, but that was just the lust. There was something other, something that went much deeper, in what he felt for the man beneath him, something that if John were a superstitious man he'd call fate. If he were a sentimental man, he'd call it love. Hell, he was a sentimental man.

Sherlock's eyes flew open at John's sudden pause. He'd reached Iridium, like iridescent, a word that John thought might describe Sherlock's eyes, the eyes scrutinising him calmly once more, that marble exterior back, the pseudo-sociopath inside, back in control. Sherlock's hand reached up to close around John's and take the lube from him. He uncurled John's hand and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, before placing the bottle back on the bedside table.

"I'm not a superstitious man John Watson" Sherlock whispered quietly, "but I sometimes think providence had a part to play in our meeting." John smiled and resisted the urge to say amazing. How the hell had Sherlock read his mind this time? "But if you breathe a word of that to anyone, I swear I'll never speak to you again." Sherlock moved John's hand between his legs and guided his fingers to his entrance. John leaned down, the smile breaking the tension and taking away both their nerves.

"What, never? Does that mean I'll be able to have some peace and quiet?" John ran a finger experimentally over Sherlock's hole. leaning down to press their lips together and the man's eyes rolled back in his head. He moaned as John pulled away again.

"I think we've both been quiet enough for the last 18 months John. I'm done with peace and quiet." Sherlock reached up and in a rare moment of tenderness, brushed his fingers over John's lips. "I wish to be chaotic and loud."

John steadied himself mentally and pushed a finger inside Sherlock, watching in awe as the man arched up off the mattress and cried out like a wounded animal.

"I think that can be arranged" and John pushed in another finger, curling them and finding Sherlock's prostate with the expert hand of the doctor.

"Oh God!" Sherlock's eyes flew open and locked onto John's. "I never … oh fuck."

John realised he'd never heard Sherlock swear before. The sound of it, in that deep voice, went straight to his erection. He removed his fingers from Sherlock and used the remaining lubricant to cover his cock, taking a moment to savour the sight of him stroking himself whilst looming over the beautiful body of the consulting detective. Then he grabbed a pillow and placed his hand on Sherlock's hip.

"Turn over" he whispered, a blush colouring his cheeks. He still couldn't quite believe he was doing this, but he wasn't backing out of it now. John Watson was not a coward.

Sherlock turned as John pushed the pillow beneath his hips and lined himself up.

'Just like entering a woman' John told himself, 'nothing to it, nothing to it, just … "OH!" John had closed his eyes and pushed inside Sherlock, but nothing had prepared him for the tight heat of it and the rolling feeling in his stomach when the realisation of what was happening finally hit him. 'Sherlock's alive, he's alive, I'm fucking him, oh God! I love him!'

John's eyes snapped open to find Sherlock perfectly still beneath him, perhaps wondering why he'd stopped moving once pushing inside, perhaps he was reading his mind again, or perhaps he was scared, or in pain. John was about to ask him if he was ok when a deep voice, slightly muffled by the bedclothes beneath answered John's thoughts.

"You too John". Three words and in an instant John's world shattered and remade itself like a Dali painting, an Escher picture, like everything about Sherlock Holmes, mad, surreal, impossible, but perfect all the same.

John began moving and Sherlock whimpered, he actually whimpered. Or was that John's own voice? He couldn't tell, he looked down to watch their bodies joining and once again let the feeling of rightness wash over him. He felt his orgasm only moments away, but he wanted this to last. He pulled out slightly, coaxing Sherlock's body off the bed and onto his elbows and knees to reach around and take Sherlock's penis in his hand. He pushed back in, deeper this time because of the angle and earned another deep moan from Sherlock. John stilled, to hold off his orgasm, leaned forward and began to kiss Sherlock's back, tasting the salty sweat of his new lover's skin.

John began to caress Sherlock's leaking erection gently and he started to move again. The consulting detective let out a cry that was almost a strangled sob and John realised that the trembling had returned. John slowed his thrusts and leaned in as close as possible to whisper reassurance.

"I've got you Sherlock, don't think, just give yourself up to it. Trust me, you're fine, it's all fine." John's voice was a breathless whine now, as he thrust into Sherlock, stroking him at first in time with the movement of his hips, but then messily, out of rhythm, but enough to cause the younger man to lose all control and begin keening like an animal in a trap; emotion, sensation, everything accumulating into one crescendo and like a wave Sherlock came, the clenching of his muscles wringing John's orgasm from him simultaneously.

John thrust incoherently into Sherlock as he came in hard, drawn out spurts, watching as Sherlock cried out, his arms giving way and his face falling to the bed, muffling his cries and feeling his new lover's cock spasming in his hand, coating his digits and the bedsheets in hot semen.

John pulled out and collapsed bonelessly on top of Sherlock's back, taking care to avoid his damaged shoulder. After a few seconds he just about registered that Sherlock rolled out from beneath him, only to drag John onto his chest and immediately wrap his arms around him. He had no idea how long they both lay there, their breathing becoming one in a rhythmic dance, but when John was next aware of his surroundings, he was cold and the mess between and beneath them was sticking uncomfortably to their skin.

John tried to extract himself from Sherlock's embrace, but the consulting detective growled like a predatory dog. John sighed, an amused smile crossing his face and kissed Sherlock's neck, gently nipping his collarbone with his teeth.

"I just want to get a cloth to clean us up is all." Sherlock reluctantly let go and allowed John to pad over to the bathroom, turning his head to watch his new lover walk naked in his presence. It made Sherlock smile, which he immediately cursed himself for and then smiled again. God he was like a lovesick teenager. He should despise himself, but he didn't. 'Hormones Sherlock, just post-coital hormones.' But the sensation of butterflies in his stomach spoke of more irrational emotions in his brain.

John returned with a flannel soaked in warm water and a towel, having already wiped himself down he cleaned Sherlock. Once again, without question, acting the doting physician and friend, as he'd always done. Then he discarded the items on the floor and climbed back into bed, covering himself and Sherlock and unable to keep a note of surprise out of his voice when the taller man spooned himself around his flatmate, blogger, best friend and now lover, nuzzling the back of his neck, kissing at the nape and inhaling the scent of John's skin. Sherlock didn't do sentiment, did he?

But before John could ask, Sherlock spoke "You're my oxygen John." John turned in Sherlock's arms and blinked back tears as he looked into the eyes of that certain consulting detective. Sherlock brushed his fingers over John's lips again and smiled, although there was amused, affectionate derision in his eyes at John's emotion.

"Likewise Sherlock" John's voice with thick with unshed tears "God, I've missed you so much." John mumbled the words into Sherlock's good shoulder, but he heard nonetheless.

"I can't promise never to hurt you again. I can't promise to stay. I can only promise to try. For you John."

"I know" John mumbled, thinking how that would have to be enough. He had no desire to change Sherlock, only to bring out those better qualities within him that he'd always known had existed, to teach him how to live in a society that wasn't built for the likes of him, to protect him from others ignorance and his own recklessness, but not to change him, never that. He began to kiss Sherlock's neck as the man spoke.

"And I will still ignore you at times, I will neglect you in favour of the work, I will insult you when I get frustrated, I will experiment on you and make you angry with me and will run you headlong into danger. John, despite my feelings, if you had any sense of self preservation, you _would_ leave me. You were doing ok on your own."

"And you're a bloody idiot Sherlock." John bore no malice in the words and accompanied them with a tender kiss to Sherlock's mouth, the man beneath him looking puzzled at this reaction. "I was most certainly not ok without you and you know that if any of that stuff bothered me, I'd have left you of my own volition long ago." He looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Besides, I never had much of a sense of self preservation." John kissed him once more and then sighed, snuggling into Sherlock's side.

"So, are we moving back to Baker Street?" The consulting detective asked hopefully.

"Of course, where else would we go, you ridiculous man? We'll have to break the news gently to Mrs Hudson though, or we're in danger of giving her a heart attack."

"About my return, or our relationship?"

John chuckled, "Your return of course, I don't think there'll be a single person surprised about our relationship."

John reached up and the two men kissed, slowly, deliberately. The level of emotion each could feel flowing from the other was breathtaking and John felt like he'd gained something divine, whilst Sherlock felt that he'd gained the part of himself he didn't even realise was missing. Had John ever kissed any of the women he'd slept with this much? He didn't think so and now he'd started, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to stop. Their tongues dueled languidly, but firmly and John caught hold of Sherlock's and sucked it. This earned John another low moan and Sherlock's hands began trailing up and down his chest, fingers caressing his nipples and then moving around to stroke his back, pausing to swirl around the scar on his shoulder and sending starbursts of sensation down John's spine. They broke apart eventually for air and in between the light pecks to one another's lips and their hands wandering over one another's skin, Sherlock spoke whispered promises.

"You have my devotion John, at all times, even when you think that you're invisible to me, you're not; you are woven into the DNA of every cell in my body. You are my heart." and Sherlock pressed a feather light kiss to John's forehead.

John smiled sleepily, thinking how everything with Sherlock became so intense and complicated and how John wouldn't change that for the world. He had his life, his raison d'etre, back and for the first time in 18 months, he could sleep easy.

"I love you too." John whispered, smiling as he fell asleep and Sherlock couldn't help but mimic him, no longer certain where John ended and he began, but whereas once this would have scared him, 18 months alone to think about what John Watson meant to him had changed him and now John had acknowledged his feelings, Sherlock finally felt complete for the first time in his life.

Together, a certain consulting detective and a certain ex-army doctor would take on the criminal world once again and once again, they would be brilliant.


End file.
